


You get to those places I can't reach

by oftirnanog



Series: You've got the love I need to see me through [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domesticity, F/F, Oral Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 06:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftirnanog/pseuds/oftirnanog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Allison knows Lydia’s sharp edges, because in high school Lydia was all sharp edges. Carefully honed jagged spikes designed to gouge any unwanted person that got too close, a veneer of dumb popularity and perfectly applied make-up to match each coordinated outfit. It never occurred to Allison that she might be presenting that front to her parents too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You get to those places I can't reach

**Author's Note:**

> Allison and Lydia go to Lydia's dad's wedding. There are some tense father-daughter hostilities and the general awkwardness and discomfort that comes with family.

The initial blast of warmth when Allison gets home lasts until she takes her coat off and realizes that it was less a blast of warmth and more a cessation of wind. She finds Lydia wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and wearing what appears to be Allison’s UC Davis hoodie, confirming that it’s not just that Allison’s been out in the cold too long, the apartment is, actually, freezing. 

Lydia is flipping through a textbook with a highlighter in a manner that is so reminiscent of Stiles that Allison almost laughs. Neither of them ever realizes how they rubbed off on each other when they lived together at Berkeley. She’s distracted from this line of thought by the shiver that runs through her and she pulls her sweater more tightly around herself in an attempt to ward off the chill. It’s not very effective.

“It’s freezing in here,” Allison says, walking over to Lydia with every intention of crawling under the blankets with her.

Lydia glances up, turns to the window as though looking outside is enough to determine the temperature, and says, “It’s cold outside.”

Allison rolls her eyes and replies, “Yes, but we have a heater so that inside is warmer.” She keeps her voice lightly teasing in an attempt to draw Lydia out from her studying, but Lydia remains resolutely involved in her reading.

She shrugs and says, “It was warmer this morning.”

Allison frowns and pauses because that doesn’t make sense. It may be cold outside, but it is marginally warmer than when she left the house this morning. She makes her way out of the living room and over to the thermostat and finds the temperature sitting at sixty.

“Is this not working?” Allison calls.

“What?”

“The thermostat,” Allison says, examining the set temperature. It’s set to seventy, so that’s not the problem.

Allison waits a moment for Lydia to reply and makes her way back over when she doesn’t.

“I think the heater’s broken,” Allison says.

“What?” Lydia asks sharply, finally lifting her head from her work. “Broken?”

“Did you honestly not notice how cold it is in here?”

“It’s winter. In Boston.”

Allison snorts and bends down the press a kiss to the top of Lydia’s head. “I’m going to go call someone to take a look at this.”

“Hmm,” Lydia responds, already reabsorbed in her reading.

Allison shakes her head and goes to make a phone call. She manages to get somebody in first thing the next morning, which means they’re in for a cold night, but it could always be worse. 

She’s just pulling the kettle off to make them tea when she hears Lydia shout, “Goddammit!”

Allison makes her way over to Lydia, arming herself with steaming mugs of tea first, and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Lydia is staring at her phone with an expression of mixed horror and disgust. Allison assumes it’s something to do with school, either her adviser with more changes that need to be made or one of her students asking inane questions the day before an assignment is due.

“Lydia?” Allison prompts when Lydia continues to stare at her phone.

Lydia looks up and her expression changes. She somehow manages to look distraught and livid at the same time. It’s a slightly terrifying look.

“My father,” Lydia spits. “Is getting married.” She says the word married with such disgust that Allison’s surprised the word has the gall to go on existing.

Allison’s not sure what to say here. She knows that Lydia’s relationship with her father is tense, to say the least. Allison’s met him exactly twice and to call his interaction with his daughter chilly is putting nicely. Generally Lydia doesn’t talk about him and Allison doesn’t press the issue. Just because he owns the roof over their heads is no reason to bring him up in otherwise pleasant conversation. 

“Fuck,” Lydia mutters, and that’s when Allison realizes the severity of the situation. 

It’s not that Lydia doesn’t swear. Just that she saves her particularly forceful swearing for situations that merit it. Like when they’re getting chased by alpha werewolves, or Stiles gets himself kidnapped by actual fae, or, apparently, when her father gets remarried.

“Tea?” Allison says, offering the mug. She has a sudden, overwhelming desire to be better at this. Because she doesn’t know what to do in this situation. She knows how to handle physical threat, how to stay calm when they’re being hunted by supernatural predators, she’s even good at offering comfort in the event of a funeral, but this is something else altogether. As someone who’s always had a fairly positive, if complicated, relationship with her father, she has trouble comprehending this rift between Lydia and her own father. 

“He wants me to be a bridesmaid, Allison.” The words come out short and brittle, but she takes the mug of tea, so that’s something. “A bridesmaid! I’ve never even met this woman!”

“I don’t know what to say,” Allison admits, because barring all other options she figures honesty is the best policy right now.

Lydia sighs and tosses her book on the coffee table. “You don’t have to say anything,” Lydia says, and offers her a small smile. She looks tired, suddenly. Resigned.

“This is going to be awful,” Lydia says, taking a sip of her tea and then pulling back when it’s too hot. “It’s going to be full of forced pleasantries, and I’ll have to act like I care and even worse my dad’s going to act like he cares.”

“Maybe he does?” Allison tries. It’s probably the wrong thing to say, but she’s incapable of not saying it. She’s forever trying to see the best in people even when they offer her all evidence to the contrary.

Lydia scoffs. “Please. This is all his fiancée’s doing. It reeks of her.”

“I thought you’d never met her.”

“I know the type. She’s trying to make nice with me so she can feel involved and permanent. Remember his girlfriend three years ago? The one that wanted to take me on a spa getaway? Over Mother’s Day weekend? They’re all the same.”

“It might not be so bad,” Allison murmurs, pulling Lydia’s legs over her lap so she can run her hands over them. Lydia leans sideways against the back of the couch and makes a noncommittal sound at the back of her throat. “In any case, I’ll be there with you.”

“They’re going to make us stay at their place,” Lydia says, like she’s going to try to talk Allison out of going.

“Okay.”

“There’s a good chance they’ll put us in separate rooms.”

“I’ll sneak into yours in the middle of the night,” Allison counters.

“They’re going to be horribly formal and overly polite to you,” Lydia continues, but Allison can tell by the tone of her voice that’s she’s not really trying, that she’s grateful Allison will be there.

“I can think of worse things.”

“We’re going to have to go to L.A.”

“You love L.A.!” Allison insists with a chuckle.

“That’s true, I do,” Lydia replies, this time with a real smile.

*

Three months later and two days before the wedding, Allison and Lydia pull into the driveway of her father’s L.A. mansion. They rented a car at the airport at Lydia’s insistence because, “Trust me. We’re going to want a reliable means of escape.” 

They’d caught a horrifically early flight so that Lydia could go for a dress fitting that afternoon, hence getting there a couple days early. There had to be time for alterations and any wedding disaster eventualities. To say that Lydia is less then impressed about it would be a gross understatement. The entire drive from the airport through L.A.’s gridlocked traffic had been peppered with Lydia’s increasingly irate mutterings about Boston having perfectly good dress shops, and the chapter draft she has due, and “Doesn’t this woman understand that we have busy fucking lives?”

Allison’s heard Lydia swear more in the past eight hours than she has in the entire time she’s known her. It’s a somewhat disconcerting development.

They sit in the car for a moment as Lydia glares at the house. It’s massive. It has a three-car garage and a pristinely landscaped front yard with topiaries. There have to be at least ten bedrooms in the place. It looks like something out of Architectural Digest and it must be worth a fortune. Allison doesn’t want to think about it.

To avoid looking at the house and all its ornate neoclassical intimidation, Allison turns her attention to Lydia. She’s applying a fresh coat of pink lipstick and touching up her eyeliner because even a 6am flight doesn’t stop her from looking fabulous. Lydia presses her lips together, makes one final swipe of her finger to be sure there’s no excess lipstick past her lip line, runs her tongue over her teeth, and takes a deep breath. Her shoulders square and her expression sets in a way that Allison finds terribly familiar even if she hasn’t seen it in a while.

This is high school Lydia, her Queen Bee mask sliding unflinchingly into place with the precise arch of an eyebrow. She even flips her hair as she steps out of the car. And Allison knows Lydia’s sharp edges, because in high school Lydia was all sharp edges. Carefully honed jagged spikes designed to gouge any unwanted person that got too close, a veneer of dumb popularity and perfectly applied make-up to match each coordinated outfit. It never occurred to Allison that she might be presenting that front to her parents too.

Allison lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and follows Lydia out of the car, trying not to stumble under the knowledge that this is going to be much harder than she’d anticipated. Lydia rings the doorbell, everything from her posture to her expression to the way she’s holding her purse screaming practiced indifference. 

Allison wants to shoot something with her crossbow. She presses her palms to her legs, fingers twitching against her thigh in their desire to rest reassuringly on the back of Lydia’s neck. Somehow she resists. She knows with an unwavering certainty that it won’t help right now.

The door opens after what feels like an eternity to reveal the maid. It’s anticlimactic to the extreme and Lydia gives her a withering once-over before stepping inside.

“Figures they’d send the maid to answer the door,” Lydia says.

“Come in, Miss Lydia,” the woman says. She looks wary and Allison thinks she has every right to.

“Lydia!” another female voice calls, and a woman in towering heels and a sleeveless, abstract-patterned dress comes striding down the hall towards them.

Allison takes an instinctive step closer to Lydia.

“Corrine,” Lydia replies and even Allison can’t interpret that tone—flat and a little unforgiving with just enough cordiality that no one on the receiving end would ever complain about being slighted.

Corrine stops short, not quite managing to mask the aborted movement of moving in for a hug. “How was the flight?” she asks instead, smiling at them.

“Early,” Lydia replies, lips curled up in what would be a smile if it weren’t for the undercurrent of hostility.

“Your father wanted to be here, but he’s—”

“Working,” Lydia finishes for. “I figured as much.”

“And who’s this?” Corrine asks, turning to Allison.

Allison offers her a polite smile and holds out her hand, “Allison.”

Corrine takes her hand hesitantly and offers her a weak handshake. Allison takes her hand back and shifts her weight to her other foot. Corrine looks genuinely confused at her presence.

“You’re father said you were bringing a date,” Corrine said, turning back to Lydia.

Allison can almost feel Lydia tense beside her and she can’t help bringing her hand to the small of her back, brushing her thumb lightly over the fabric there in a protective gesture. Her instincts are rocketing into fight mode, in the need to defend, but Lydia is more than capable of handling this, so she simply keeps her hand in place and reminds herself to breath.

“You just met her,” Lydia snaps. “Can we see our room?”

“Oh,” Corrine says, glancing at Allison again and visibly trying to hide her shock. “You’re father didn’t…never mind. It’s this way.” 

She leads them upstairs and to the end of a very long hallway to a room with the biggest king-size bed Allison has ever seen. There’s a massive antique writing desk under the window and an equally massive matching armoire on the other side of the room by the door to the en suite bathroom. They could probably fit the entire upstairs of their brownstone into this single room.

“I can get Gertrude to bring your suitcases up,” Corrine says. “And we’re going to have to leave for the dress fitting in half an hour.”

“Great,” Lydia says, the word dripping with false sincerity.

“Thank you,” Allison adds, out of reflex more than anything else.

Lydia lets out an exhausted sigh as the door shuts after Corrine and she slumps into a sitting position on the bed all her limbs seeming to collapse under their most recent efforts. Allison moves to stand in front of her and does what she been wanting to do since they walked in door and lets her hands work underneath Lydia’s hair to rest at the place her neck meets her shoulders, soothing over the tense muscles there.

“What are we doing here?” Lydia asks, her head falling forward to rest against Allison’s stomach and forcing Allison’s hands to slide over the back of her neck and down her shoulder blades. “She called you my date. Or my father did, anyway.”

“We can always leave, you know,” Allison says. There’s nothing more that she wants right now than to take Lydia away from this place. And they haven’t even seen her father yet. 

“I’ll let you know,” she replies, lifting her head to meet Allison’s eyes. “You don’t have to come with me to this dress fitting if you don’t want.”

Allison considers this before answering. She’s not sure if Lydia wants her there or not, is actually not sure she can sit through the whole thing without throttling something. It’s entirely possible that Lydia knows this and is trying to give her an out, but she doesn’t want the out if Lydia wants her there.

“I’ll go if you want me to,” Allison says, and Lydia nods, looks down at where she’s toying with the hem of Allison’s shirt. “But I won’t be offended if you don’t want me there.”

“I think you should probably stay here,” Lydia mutters, almost too quiet for Allison to hear.

“Okay,” Allison replies. She rubs her hands down Lydia’s arms. “I have depositions to go over anyway. I’ll be able to get a head start on them.”

“Thanks.”

“C’mere,” Allison murmurs, and pulls Lydia to her feet. She takes advantage of their height difference and draws Lydia in so that her head rests under the crook of her chin. She can feel Lydia clutch at the back of her shirt and tightens her arms in response.

“Okay,” Lydia says, more to herself, and pulls back from Allison. She kisses her once, twice, just a couple quick pecks, and then glances at her watch over Allison’s shoulder.

“I should go down there and make nice before we leave,” Lydia says, “Or this is going to be the longest dress fitting in the history of bridesmaids.”

“Good idea,” Allison says. “And good luck,” she adds, giving Lydia a light smack on the ass as she leaves.

Lydia turns to smirk at her and adds an exaggerated sway to her steps as she exits the room.

*

Two hours later Allison nearly falls asleep on top of her depositions and decides to search for the kitchen in hopes of making coffee, or at the very least finding a can of Coke—really, anything caffeinated will do.

Despite the size of the house, it doesn’t take Allison long to locate the kitchen. However, given that it’s larger than some restaurant kitchens, it takes about ten minutes of poking somewhat guiltily through cupboards—Allison’s parents always taught her not to go through people’s kitchen cupboards without express permission—before she locates a bag of some expensive looking organic, shade-grown, fair trade, dark roast coffee. It isn’t ground, so they must have a grinder or an espresso machine somewhere.

Allison’s money is on the latter. 

Eventually she realizes the sleek, stainless steel, Swiss contraption with the small digital screen is actually the coffee maker. She’s not sure if there are beans in it already and the package of coffee she’s holding hasn’t been opened yet, but she doesn’t know how to check, or even where the beans would go if she knew one way or the other. 

Just as she’s leaning in to look around the back of this ridiculous machine the door to kitchen bursts open. Allison startles so badly that she smacks her head on the cupboard above the coffee maker and then turns so fast her elbow collides with the counter top causing her to drop the bag of coffee.

“Mother—” she cuts herself off when she spots Lydia with her father.

She rubs at her elbow, trying to coax the tingling feeling out of her forearm and fingers and bends to rescue the coffee from the floor. Lydia has her eyebrows raised and she looks like she wants to laugh in spite of the air of general annoyance hanging around her.

“I was just trying to…coffee,” Allison says, brandishing the bag. “I didn’t know you were back. Hi Mr. Martin.”

“Allison,” he replies tersely and Allison wants the floor to swallow her where she stands.

Lydia’s face twitches with a cut-off expression of irritation. She shuts her eyes a beat longer than a blink and says, with an audibly forced calm, “We’re about to have cocktails in the parlour.”

“I’ll see you in there,” Mr. Martin says, and leaves the kitchen.

Lydia retains her stiff posture and Allison has a feeling that she’s going to retain it until they leave on Sunday. She puts the bag of coffee on the counter.

“How’d the dress fitting go?”

Lydia makes a guttural sound at the back of her throat and rolls her eyes. “It could have been worse, I guess. She’s just so controlling and particular.”

Allison presses her lips together to hide the smile that wants to take over her face, because Lydia might as well have described herself, but Lydia catches it anyway. 

“Don’t even say it,” she says.

“Sorry,” Allison says, smiling anyway. “Did you say parlour?”

“Unfortunately.”

*

They have cocktails; they have hors d’oeuvres; they have a soup, a salad, an appetizer, an entrée. It’s a marathon of food that Allison wasn’t expecting, and she’s full by the time she finishes her salad. She keeps eating anyway. It gives her something to do during the strained silences. 

Dinner with her own family was quiet sometimes, but never like this. The tension is so thick that even the maid seems loath to make a sound. She can hear everyone chewing it’s so quiet. It’s a hundred times worse than family dinner with Scott ever was. Lydia is rigid in her seat the entire time. Careful and deliberate with how she eats, always taking even mouthfuls and occasionally a sip of wine.

If Allison were sitting beside her, she’d place a reassuring hand on her leg, try to ease some of the strain with that touch, but she’s sitting across from her and playing footsies at the dining room table doesn’t seem like the best idea.

It’s so mundane, the thing that tips their dinner from quiet and strained to its breaking point of over as far as Lydia’s concerned. Allison really should have seen it coming.

Corrine is saying something about her not wanting the reception to run too late that seems to be aimed at Lydia and she responds by saying that they have an early flight to catch anyway. This was due in part to their respective jobs, but mostly to Lydia’s desire to get out of her father’s house as soon as humanly possible.

At this casual remark, Corrine stops, fork midway to her mouth, asparagus hanging precariously and somewhat comically from the suspended prongs, and says with more melodrama than a daytime soap, “But what about brunch?”

She sounds so devastated that Allison can’t help staring at her—she’s half-expecting tears in a moment.

“Our flight’s in the morning,” Lydia replies, voice thin as her patience wanes.

“But you have to be at brunch. Everyone’s going to be there,” Corrine insists.

“Allison has a big case she’s working on and I have a class to prepare for. I’m sure we won’t be missed.” It’s a classic Lydia tone of this-conversation-is-over-because-I-say-it-is, which Corrine seems cowed by, but apparently her father is immune.

“I’m sure your teachers will understand if you’re slightly behind on the occasion of a wedding,” he says, all calm authority as he takes a sip of wine.

“First of all,” Lydia begins (Allison can almost feel the prickle of spikes coming out), “I have professors, not teachers. And as a doctoral candidate, they’re also my colleagues. Second of all, I’m teaching the class, not attending it, so it would be rather a bit more inappropriate if I showed up unprepared. Not to mention unprofessional.” She stabs her fork into a particularly crisp piece of asparagus as though it will drive the point home.

“This isn’t up for negotiation. You’re attending this brunch.” And Allison is suddenly and viscerally aware of where Lydia’s conversation-over tone came from.

“Our flight—” 

“Can be changed.”

“It’s not just work—”

“You mean school.” 

Lydia’s grip on her fork and knife tighten enough that her knuckles go white on her already pale hands. “We have a house to clean and take care of.”

“You’d do well to remember that I bought you that house,” her father says, and it’s so casual he might be commenting on the weather. 

That’s Lydia’s breaking point. Allison knows without even having to look at her, though she does look at her. Can’t help it. Watches as her jaw clenches and she takes a deep breath in an effort to calm herself, as she neatly places her utensils on the side of her plate and, without a word, rises from the table, smoothes down the front of her skirt and walks to the door. She pauses just before exiting and turns to her father.

“And you wonder why I never want to take anything from you.”

She means it to come out harsh and cutting, Allison can tell, but she just sounds hurt and sad, and all the more vulnerable for it failing to achieve the desired effect.

Allison glances at the half-eaten food on her plate, remembers that she hasn’t even been hungry for the last two courses, and mumbles, “Excuse me,” before getting up and following Lydia from the room.

She hasn’t gotten far. Allison finds her sitting midway up the stairs on the landing in the front foyer. She stops a few steps down from her to meet her eyes and waits.

“We’re going to have to change our flight,” she says finally, in a small, defeated voice Allison hopes she never has to hear again.

“Okay.”

Lydia gives her a pleading look, but Allison doesn’t know how to help. Doesn’t know how to make this better short of changing their flight to make it for tomorrow. So she reaches out her hands and tugs Lydia to her feet.

“Come on,” Allison says, heading for their room. “Let’s just go to bed.”

Lydia nods, lets Allison tuck her under her arm, and leans into her. Allison doesn’t know how, but she’s going to get Lydia through this.

*

She starts the next morning when she wakes up. Lydia’s still asleep. Allison begins by kissing her way down Lydia’s throat and across her collarbone, nipping gently when she gets to the soft skin where her shoulder meets her neck. Lydia murmurs something unintelligible, shifts slightly so her head tilts toward Allison and her arm is thrown behind her head, and continues to sleep. Allison grins and ducks under the covers to get at Lydia’s stomach.

She’s covered only by an oversized t-shirt, one of the ones Lydia didn’t start wearing until they’d been living together for almost a year. Until then she’d been all pretty cotton nighties and silk negligees. Allison’s not sure what changed, exactly, or why it changed (perhaps it was as simple as the weather), but one day she’d come home from work on a particularly hot July evening to find Lydia wearing this same t-shirt, legs draped over the arm of the couch to expose all that thigh and just a hint of hip and she’d never gone back except for special occasions. 

Now she gets her tongue on that hip, drags it along the crease of the bone there, and kisses her way down to Lydia’s thigh. She bites little red marks into the skin there and she can feel Lydia responding, waking up in increments as she presses her tongue against the fabric of Lydia’s underpants right over her clit. Allison hears Lydia gasp and feels her leg hook around her back, holding her in place. She smiles and continues her ministrations, soaking the fabric through before taking mercy on her and pulling them down.

Lydia struggles with one leg, lifting it awkwardly to escape from the confines of her underpants. Allison guides her foot away from entanglement, runs her hand along the outside of Lydia’s thigh as she kisses her along the sensitive inside skin. Then she moves back in, licking her way over Lydia’s folds, teasing her until she writhing against the bed. Allison can feel the muscles in her stomach jumping under the palm of her hand as she works her tongue against her, pushing her closer to the edge.

Allison can feel Lydia’s whole body shudder and tense when she breaks, can just make out her name on a choked exhale, and she eases up, using just enough pressure to draw out her orgasm as long as she can. She lets her tongue dip into Lydia’s belly button as she works her way up her body to where her t-shirt has bunched under her breasts. 

As soon as she’s out from under the covers, Lydia grabs her, hands on either side of her head, and pulls her into a kiss. Allison grins into it and they stay like that for a while, tangled in each other as they kiss.

“I could get used to waking up like that,” Lydia says, still breathless, when they finally break apart.

Allison presses a kiss to the corner of Lydia’s mouth, smiling into it. “I could get used to waking you up like that.”

Lydia makes a contented noise and then tilts her head to look at the clock on the bedside table. Nine o’clock.

“Well, I made us lunch reservations for today,” Lydia says, running her fingers up and down Allison’s back under her tank top. Allison shivers.

“Somewhere fancy?” Allison asks, only half-joking.

“Always,” Lydia replies. “But it’s early still. So I think we have time for you.”

The last part comes out in a low whisper and Allison goes in to nip at Lydia’s ear. Of course that’s when Lydia decides to pull Allison’s tank top over her head, so it ends up getting caught under Allison’s chin and she ends up knocking her nose against Lydia’s cheekbone. They both start laughing and it takes them a few more minutes to get Allison out of her shirt, after which Lydia rolls them over to straddles Allison’s hips. She pulls her own shirt off and her hair is like a curtain as she leans over Allison.

Yeah, it’s a good start to the day.

*

They make it through the rest of the day, even through the rehearsal dinner, unscathed. Lydia wears a strapless, ruched dress in emerald green that she bought that day and it’s nothing less than stunning against her pale skin and red hair. She flits around the room, shaking hands and giving pecks on the cheek where appropriate, endearing herself to everyone she meets as Lydia is so good at doing. 

Allison stays close, drinking wine a bit faster than is probably recommended and trying to avoid hovering. Every once in a while Lydia will reach for her hand and give it a squeeze, lest Allison think she’s forgotten about her, or to make sure she’s still there—maybe a little of both—and she’ll let their fingers stay entwined until she’s pulled off to the next round of people to meet. 

When they get back Allison has every intention of taking Lydia apart, starting with divesting her of that dress, but just as they’ve reached the top step her father appears from one of the many, many rooms.

“Lydia,” he says, and almost as an after thought, “Allison.”

Allison nods and watches Lydia press her lips together and turn to face him expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“Could I see you for a minute?”

If you didn’t know Lydia—even if you did—if you didn’t know Lydia the way Allison knows Lydia, if you hadn’t been watching her carefully for years, trying to read between the schooled expressions and careful inflections, trying to peek through the chinks in the armour that only reveal themselves when she moves the right way, you would miss it, the way she shrinks, seems to grow smaller. It’s not even a physical thing, really, maybe a slight shift in her shoulders or the way she’s holding her head. But it’s there. The way she unconsciously takes up less space when her father speaks to her directly. It makes something clench in Allison’s chest.

She trails her fingers along the small of Lydia’s back and murmurs, “I’ll meet you in there.”

Lydia doesn’t so much nod as tilt her head minutely, but Allison takes it for the acknowledgement it is.

Allison gets in the bedroom and sits on the bed for lack of any better ideas. She pulls her phone out of her purse, flicks through some emails from work (none of which are important), and puts it away. 

After the longest five minutes Allison has ever experienced, Lydia comes into the room. She kicks her shoes off and walks towards Allison, slumping next to her on the bed. She has something fisted in her hand.

“So,” Allison says.

“He gave me this,” Lydia says, opening her fingers to reveal a necklace: a rectangular cut emerald surrounded by marcasite on a thin silver chain. “It was my grandmother’s.”

Allison raises her eyebrows. Whatever she was expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. Lydia holds it out to her and Allison picks it up to get a better look at it. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

“Apparently he was going to give it to me when I finished school, but since it appears that’s never going to happen, he decided to just give it to me now.” There’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice, disdain at the dig he had to deliver with the gift, but there’s a bit of fondness there too. 

Allison can’t imagine having any fondness for a man who behaves so coldly, a man who’s supposed to care and comfort and instead offers cutting remarks and chilly disinterest, but he is her father, and these things are a labyrinth of complexities. She runs her thumb delicately over the stone.

“He had to have a criticism in there somewhere or I think the gesture might have killed him.”

Allison snorts and mutters, “Baby steps.” She hands the necklace back and Lydia gets up to place it carefully on the nightstand by her side of the bed. 

Lydia starts unzipping her dress, but gets caught halfway down, so Allison comes to her rescue, letting her hands slide over Lydia’s stomach as it falls to the floor. She presses her lips to the smattering of freckles on her shoulder, burying her face in the curve of her neck.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” She whispers the question into her skin. 

“I’m always ready for anything,” Lydia replies, leaning back into Allison’s embrace.

“I know you are, that’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” Lydia turns to face Allison, brings her hands up to frame Allison’s face and brushes her thumbs over her cheekbones. “I’ve got you there, so how bad can it be?”

The smile that explodes across Allison’s face even feels ridiculous, but she can’t help it, she’s too head-over-heels, butterfly-flutteringly, every-cliché-in-the-book in love with Lydia to care.

“I love you,” she says because it seems silly not to, even though Lydia must be able to read it all over her face.

Lydia rolls her eyes and Allison laughs. “Don’t get sappy on me,” Lydia says. “Let’s get some sleep.”

Allison’s just hovering on the edge of falling deeply to sleep, with Lydia curled behind her for a change, when Lydia whispers, “I love you too,” the words tickling behind Allison’s ear. 

*

Allison expects the worst from this wedding. She really does. Part of that is self-preservation, a prepare-for-the-worst-hope-for-the-best attitude that she’s perfected since her acquaintance with the supernatural. The other part is experience. Events like this, with tensions running high, just have a way of unraveling. 

She is pleasantly, ecstatically surprised. 

Lydia manages to look radiant in her dress: a strapless, floor length garment whose colour Corrine insists is ‘sangria’, though is really just an awful purple colour trying for fuschia. The ceremony is short and lovely, and Lydia even manages to smile at the end of it, despite the line of tension across her shoulders.

Allison spends the cocktail hour making small talk with some of the other wedding guests and making cursory scans of the room in the off chance of spotting Lydia. But photographs take up the whole hour and before she knows it Allison’s being ushered into the dining hall and taking her seat at a table of yet more people she doesn’t know. Once the head table is seated, Lydia catches Allison’s eye and winks at her. Her smile is only a little forced. 

As soon as dinner finishes, Lydia makes her way to Allison’s table and pulls one of the vacated chairs next to Allison. She sways a bit when she sits and steadies herself with one perfectly manicured hand on the edge of the table.

She leans forward and stage whispers, “I’m a little drunk.”

“I’d guessed as much,” Allison replies. 

She always finds it a little odd when Lydia is drunk because she was so infrequently for most of the time she’s known her. Not that’s she’s drunk a lot now, but she used to nurse one drink for an entire evening, and she’s a little looser now. A little more willing to relinquish her iron control. Of course some of that control is still there. For the most part Lydia is a very subtle drunk, really only shows it in her eyes, which get a glittery, almost hooded look to them. She’s wearing that look now.

“Want to dance?” Lydia asks when the band switches to something slower.

“Absolutely.”

Lydia guides her onto the dance floor without so much as a misstep and arranges them so that she’s leading, because of course Lydia is going to lead. Allison laughs and lets her, tries to keep up with the dance steps she’s only vaguely familiar with and to Lydia are clearly instinctual. 

“How did I not know you took dance lessons?” Allison asks.

“Who said I took dance lessons?”

Allison raises her eyebrows and Lydia rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t very old,” she replies. “It’s a mark of good breeding, you know.”

“Of course it is,” Allison says, laughing on it. “But I think I was wondering how I never knew you could dance.”

“I have keep some mystery about me,” Lydia says. “You already know too much.”

She narrows her eyes in mock suspicion, clearly teasing, but Allison’s stomach swoops at the truth underneath it, that she knows Lydia better than probably anyone else in the world.

“May I cut in?” Lydia’s dad asks from somewhere behind Allison.

Lydia stops abruptly and her hand tightens possessively on Allison’s waist. Allison brushes her thumb over the back of Lydia’s neck in reassurance and gives her hand a squeeze before disengaging herself to step back. 

“She’s all yours,” Allison says. 

Lydia blinks and composes herself, switching positions for her father to lead. Allison takes a seat on the edge of the dance floor to watch them without hovering. They both visibly relax as the dance progresses, and by the end of it Lydia is even smiling. They’re both still a bit rigid, formal and courteous in a way Allison can’t ever imagine being with her own father, but they look more comfortable. They look better.

When Lydia takes a seat beside Allison after her father’s gone back to Corrine, she ignores her staring by looking straight ahead and says, “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?” Allison asks, teasing.

“Whatever it is you want to say about this not being so bad or things working out or any other horrible iteration of that sentiment that will bring a jinx on this whole weekend and turn tomorrow’s brunch into the apocalypse,” Lydia replies.

Allison laughs. “You’re supposed to be the least superstitious person I know.”

“I’m not superstitious. But this is my father. I don’t need to encourage the wrath of the fates or the universe or god only know what supernatural forces might be at work.”

Allison leans over and rests her head against Lydia’s shoulder, grabs Lydia’s hand from her lap and twines their fingers together.

“Can I at least tell you that you look lovely this evening?”

“You already did. Twice.”

“Well, third time’s a charm.”

“Are you trying to talk in clichés?”

Allison chuckles. “Maybe.”

Lydia tilts her head so it’s pressed against Allison’s and they stay like that for a bit, just a quiet moment between them with the background noise of cheesy wedding music and laughing guests.

“Thanks,” Lydia murmurs eventually.

Allison would ask for what, but knows it’s for a multitude of things. She doesn’t say ‘your welcome’, can’t think of anything to say that would be adequate, so she just squeezes Lydia’s hand, brushes her thumb across the vulnerable skin on the inside of her wrist, and marvels at the language of small gestures that’s developed between them. It’s enough that she wishes she could lock the moment away in a glass case to preserve, as silly a notion it may be.

*

There’s a moment at brunch, when Lydia says they have to leave early to catch their flight, that Allison thinks will break the hard-won peace of the past two days. Corrine’s face tenses in distress and Lydia’s father locks his shoulders in a way that Allison has seen Lydia do a hundred times or more. Lydia’s posture is angled for battle, but then her father nods, his shoulders soften, minutely but enough, and Corrine smiles and says, “Of course.”

They exchange hugs and thanks and all the endearments and promises that people mean at the time but so rarely follow through on. Allison’s just happy that everyone’s so pleasant, is happy to watch Lydia relax in increments as they make their way through the airport.

Once they’re seated on the plane, Lydia says, without so much as a glance up from her phone, “Just say it. You’re dying to say it.”

Allison snorts and follows it up with, “That wasn’t so bad.”

Lydia turns her head, all perfectly calculated boredom, and makes a show of rolling her eyes. She puts her ear buds in and turns on her music, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. Allison just shakes her head and pulls out the depositions she’d neglected since that first day. And everything is just as it was, slides back into normalcy like it had been there all along.


End file.
